


Correspondence in the Time of Quarantine

by Lediona, Zigster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco just wants a boiled egg, Epistolary, Grown Up Harry and Draco, M/M, Ogden's Finest, Quarantine times, Single Parents, drunken owl post, flirting badly through letters, letter writing, lockdown fest, single parents to friends to eventual lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 15,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lediona/pseuds/Lediona, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: After informing Scorpius of my plan to bring him home, he wrote back immediately to ask if he might bring a friend with him to isolate at the Manor. When I inquired about the identity of this friend, imagine my surprise to discover that it was none other than your son, Albus Potter.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Comments: 355
Kudos: 867
Collections: Lock Down Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/gifts).



> We hope this brings a smile to your face, Tacky!
> 
> This is Zigs and Ledi's first venture into co-writing together and it's been a blast! Please, enjoy the silliness that shall inevitably follow.

* * *

Dear Mr Potter,  
As I am sure you are aware, despite the Ministry’s original statement that this sickness would not affect wizards, it is becoming increasingly apparent that it is not limited to muggles alone. Scorpius’ continued presence at Hogwarts worries me greatly, given the number of students living in close quarters and those from muggle families (do not roll your eyes at me, Potter, I'm simply stating that we are all, muggle and wizard alike, more connected than ever nowadays and considering the current circumstances I am, understandably, concerned). Therefore, I have decided to remove Scorpius for the remainder of the term. 

After informing Scorpius of my plan to bring him home, he wrote back immediately to ask if he might bring a friend with him to isolate at the Manor. When I inquired about the identity of this friend, imagine my surprise to discover that it was none other than your son, Albus Potter. 

Although I question your decision-making at the best of times, you might already have plans for how to handle the threat of this sickness. If that is the case, then I completely understand; however, I want to make it clear that Albus is welcome to join us at the Manor. I am perfectly able to undertake my research here and will reinforce the wards to keep unwanted visitors out, not that we entertain guests that often, if ever, as of late. We will be quite safe here and, Merlin-willing, healthy. 

Please respond by return owl as quickly as possible so that I might make arrangements for Scorpius and Albus’ rooms to be set to rights before they arrive. That is, if you allow your son to join us.

Regards,  
D. Malfoy

***

Hey Malfoy,  
Well, now that I’ve read your letter, then I guess you won’t be surprised to hear that I received a visit from Al the other night, asking to ‘ride out the quarantine’ with Scorpius. Although my gut instinct was to demand that he stay here with me, there will be a lot to do in order to close down Hogwarts and it would be safer for him to be elsewhere while there are still so many people around. So, as much as it pains me to admit it, you would be doing me an immense favour in looking after him until I’m able to leave, and even harder to admit is that I trust you to do so. I will inform McGonagall that Al has my permission to stay with you and Scorpius if you can sort out their transportation from Hogwarts. Al will probably want to get a few things from home, so I’ll ask him to make a list and have them sent over to the Manor later this week. 

Thank you and stay safe,  
Harry


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Dear Potter,  
I am writing to inform you that Scorpius and Albus have arrived safely at the Manor. After an endless tangle of precautionary decontamination charms, health scans, identification checks and so on. Honestly, how is it possible for officials to be so incompetent, Potter? You deal with this all the time. How do you not go completely spare at the torturously convoluted and fussy procedures and supreme levels of stupidity? I wanted to hex them all. But the Headmistress assured me that it was, indeed, a secure floo connection and I prevailed at removing them from the festering incubator of plague that is our esteemed alma mater at present. Now the boys are ensconced in the kitchens, being doted on by the house elves and eating an unseemly amount of freshly baked biscuits, no doubt. I shall have Albus floo-call you later this evening.

Regards,   
D. Malfoy

***

Malfoy,  
Your assurance that our sons have been safely removed from this ‘festering incubator of plague at present’, as you so delightfully put it, is thrilling news. Al had already sent off a Patronus informing me of his arrival several hours ago, so I’m afraid your dramatic retelling was, although truly entertaining, somewhat unnecessary. However, it’s good to hear! And thank you again for taking in my brat for the duration. I hope he doesn’t eat you out of house and home. Meanwhile, I remain trapped amidst the plague and now I’m off to attempt to scour the suits of armour, who, as of yet, have resisted all efforts to submit to decontamination. Bastards. 

Ta,   
Harry 

***

Potter,   
You’re as tactless as a flobberworm in regards to correspondence. Go lick a doorknob, you heathen.   
  
Warmest regards,  
D. Malfoy   
  
P.S. Your son is indeed already eating me out of house and home. I shall be sending you the bill directly. 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Malfoy, I save my efforts in prose for love letters. This is the best you’re going to get. 

***

I perish the thought of all the poor souls you’ve tortured over the years with your common ramblings, Potter. The witches of the Wizarding World surely deserve better than you for their hero. 

*** 

Really, Malfoy, witches? Do you not read the Prophet? 

*** 

Potter,   
If you’re attempting to scandalise me with details of your sordid personal life I will not take the bait. The society pages are filled with nothing but worthless drivel. Don’t insult my intelligence by thinking that I’d read such rags.

D. Malfoy 

***

I would never dream of insulting your intelligence, Malfoy. 

***

Wait. So the rumours are true? No wonder your name is always followed by the tragically gauche moniker of ‘confirmed bachelor’. As a fellow ‘confirmed bachelor’, Potter, allow me to raise a glass of elf wine to all the witches of the Wizarding World who will not have to suffer through your dreadful correspondence. I, being a man of noble blood and gallant prospect, will bear the burden of your letters, if only for the sake of our sons. Cheers. 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Hi Malfoy,  
It was good to speak with Al last night—it sounds like he’s settling in well. Perhaps too well since it appears our sons are viewing this as something of a holiday. Please make sure Al keeps up with his work while he’s with you, okay?

The last of the students leave this evening, which will be a bloody relief. The combined chaos of their panic over this pandemic and their unprecedented departure from school was enough to drive me to unearth my hidden bottle of Ogden’s Finest. Anyway, they’ll be gone soon and we can get down to the business of deep cleaning the castle. Another heinous task but better than trying to herd crying first years to floo fires and portkeys.

Which leads me to why I’m writing: we’ve received orders from the Ministry stating that Hogwarts staff are to remain on school grounds for two weeks before returning to their homes to ensure they are not carrying this sickness, which means the earliest I will be back at Grimmauld Place is mid-month. That being the case, I wanted to make sure that you were okay looking after Al for that long. It’s a lot to ask, and I’m sure I can figure something out here, now that the other students are leaving, but I assume he’d rather stay with Scorpius than knock about an empty castle with his dad. Remember when they used to like spending time with us?

Let me know.   
Thanks,  
Harry

***

Potter,   
It is no great shock to me to learn that you’ve been driven to the bottle over the world’s current circumstances. Please do not think that I’m commiserating with you, on the contrary, I’m simply nodding my acceptance that poor Albus’ sainted father is, in fact, a drunk. So, the Prophet did hit the nail on the head for once. How novel. Tell me, do you attend weekly meetings? Perhaps you should. I hear they’re quite helpful. Blaise certainly found solace in them, but I digress. 

Albus remaining here for the duration is perfectly fine. We’ve plenty of room and the house-elves are practically in raptures over having more than just me to cook for. Your son has settled in easily, no doubt Scorpius is doing his best to show him around. The grounds are extensive and the halls are a meandering mess of a maze but they seem to have made a sort of game out of exploring them. Despite myself, I find their company in this old pile welcoming. So no, do not worry about the extended time. Do what you must and I shall carry on here. And yes, Professor Potter, I ensure you that both Scorpius and Albus will attend to their studies. Can’t send them back to Hogwarts woefully behind, now can I?   
  
Regards,  
D. Malfoy 

***

Malfoy,  
As much as I miss him being at Hogwarts with me, I’m glad Al’s away from here, happy and safe. And as an expression of my gratitude, I’m sending along a bottle of Ogden’s with this letter. I have no doubt that you aren’t tempted to indulge from time to time, despite that high horse of yours, especially when the boys have you at the end of your tether.  
But truly, Malfoy, thank you for looking after him. I mean it.   
  
\- H   
  
P.S. Citing the Prophet? I thought you didn’t read such ‘worthless drivel’? 

***

I have no idea what you’re talking about, Potter. You’re clearly worse for drink. Go to bed.   
  
D.M.   
  
P.S. Thank you for the vintage. Aged 25 years—I’m flattered. 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Potter,   
Now that Albus has been in residence at the Manor for five days, I’ve had ample opportunity to observe how he and Scorpius are getting on together outside of school, and what I’ve discovered is rather intriguing. It has come to my attention that . . . oh, how do I say this delicately yet with the gravitas it deserves, that our sons are not so much schoolboy chums as they are _les petits amis._ Were you aware of this? No, highly unlikely, given your painfully obtuse nature.

As I have no one here with whom to discuss this revelation, I find myself writing to you out of sheer despondency for I fear they are trying to hide this from me, as if they might meet some unfortunate end lest I discover them. Though it wounds me grievously, I am seeking your advice on how to best approach this situation with our beloved brats. For surely you don’t disapprove, do you? As the Saviour of the Wizarding World, and a ‘confirmed bachelor’ yourself, you wouldn’t dare stoop to the levels of such close-minded hypocrisy as to shame your only child for simply falling for a wizard instead of a witch? 

But, I digress. 

Do you think they’re intentionally hiding this from us? Should I keep pretending, though it pains me to do so? They shouldn’t have to tip-toe around me, and I most assuredly do not wish to keep acting as if I’m as ignorant as you are, Potter. The resulting headache is too much to bear. I am a single parent, I can not afford the luxury of lying in a darkened room with a cold compress atop my forehead. I must soldier on as the sole guardian of this household. 

As this involves not only my son but yours, I demand your assistance!

Write back immediately.  
D.M.

***

Malfoy,  
The frenzied panic dripping off your last letter put me in mind of the first years and I nearly had to bust out the ol’ Ogdens once more. Don’t worry, I resisted the temptation so I could write back _immediately_ to tell you to _calm your tits._

I know you hoped to catch me unawares by revealing the nature of my son's relationship with yours, but it pleases me greatly to tell you that I have known for a damn long time. They aren’t obvious at school, but it’s no secret either. Besides, Albus is quite possibly the least subtle person on the planet. I have known that he was a rainbow child even before he left for Hogwarts. Once he’d been sorted and settled, it was clear that a certain boy had caught his eye. He would not stop talking about one Scorpius Malfoy. For _years_ , I’ve had to listen to him go on and on about your son, and as much as it pained me to admit that Scorpius might be the _only_ Malfoy in existence without a superiority complex a mile high, I was pleased that Albus had found such a close friend, well, now boyfriend, in him. Anyway, I’m glad you’ve finally caught up. 

Honestly, I think just leave them be for now. I highly doubt they’re worried that you won’t approve. It seems more likely that they’re just wrapped up in their own little bubble, especially now that they are away from Hogwarts together. Sounds rather sweet to me. But if you’re concerned, we can discuss it further.

Please feel free to respond at your leisure,   
— H


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Potter,  
Are you always so blasé ? I expected you to have a bit more care and concern for the happiness of the one and _only_ heir to the Potter legacy. I am astounded that Albus made it to sixteen if this is the way you approach parenting. Do you extend a similar attitude towards your teaching? If some poor child confuses a basic atmospheric charm with a stinging hex do you simply shrug and chalk it up to a lesson learned? I am beginning to question the level of your dedication towards your chosen profession. Perhaps I should write to Headmistress McGonagall and report your unfathomable negligence. 

These are our children, and they are . . . _courting!_ A Malfoy and a Potter. Oh, Merlin above, it's like that muggle play! With the star-crossed Italian lovers finding each other despite their warring families. Only without the poison, and hopefully, tragic death. Have you read it? No, of course you haven’t. Forgive me, I’d forgotten to whom I was writing to for a moment.

Anyway, what are we going to do, Potter? I will not be the father whose son hides from him. I refuse. 

Clearly, since I am the only one of us with a modicum of concern over this development, I will use my superior intelligence to come up with a plan of action. You carry on with your . . . whatever it is that you are doing at that bloody school. You are useless!

D.M.

***

  
  


Did you actually send me smelling salts, Potter? You complete pillock! I’ve promptly tossed them in the bin. Your cheek is appalling. Grow up.   
  
P.S. How are you faring under quarantine at Hogwarts?

  
  


***

Malfoy,   
Forgive my cheek, I thought you may be in fear of fainting. See, I, too, can be concerned.

Hogwarts under quarantine is rather dull, to be honest. So much so that I miss the utter chaos and noise and mess the children bring to my daily life. I never would have thought I'd feel nostalgia for such things, but there you have it. There are only so many decontamination spells one can cast before it becomes a bore, and meals are strange since we are required to sit so far apart. I don’t like shouting down the table to ask for the butter dish. Binns is convinced ghosts can’t be carriers and insists on floating too close to everyone; Sinistra has taken to carrying a fan with her to waft him away. It will be good to finally be allowed home when all of this is finished. 

Give Al my best, 

— H 

***

Potter!   
Forget Binns, what about the boys? 

Yes, we have established that you’ve known about our sons for ‘a long time’ now, but were you also aware, by any chance, that they are not so much a demure duo of lovesick fools but instead a pair of randy little fuckwits? They literally cannot keep their hands off each other. What on earth have you saddled me with here? 

I thought I was doing a good deed by taking in Albus, what with your ‘ _oh, would you mind a few extra weeks, Malfoy_ ,’ and your ‘ _please, Malfoy, I’m a failed man_ ,’ and your ‘ _oh, Malfoy, won’t you please pick up the mantle of my fallen shield as I do not have the strength left to carry on without your esteemed help, my son needs you_ !’ And I did, without question! I gladly took on the task of parenting not one, but _two_ , teenage boys in the bloom of their youth amongst a devastating world-wide plague. For you, Potter! Well, mostly for Scorpius, he doesn’t ask for much and I am a doting father after all, but I digress. 

My point is, Potter, that our children are running amok in the Manor exhibiting a level of hormonal stamina that is unsettling considering their age and, what I thought up until a few days ago, lack of experience. Despite your covetous position as professor at the very school in which they are present _for most of the bloody year_ , this unbridled passion has slipped your notice. 

What’s more, I’m not even surprised. You are a disappointment at every turn, Potter. Truly. I know most of your teenage years on the run are now the stuff of legend, but I swear, if it weren’t for Granger, you and the Weasley nob would be dead! And where would that leave my son? Well, probably pure and virginal, but I digress. Again! 

Your insufferable ignorance has me rambling. Consider yourself fortunate this isn’t a howler. 

I do not care if you are tired or nostalgic or whatever it was that you were saying in your last letter, respond to me. Now! 

D.M.   
P.S. And I swear, Potter, if another package of smelling salts is sent through these wards, I shall come to Hogwarts myself, plague be damned, and hex off all that disgracefully tousled hair of yours from root to shiny, curled tip!


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

To the long-suffering madman of Malfoy Manor,   
I can’t get over some of the gems you gifted me with in your last letter. _‘Randy little fuckwits’_? Threatening to come hex off my hair—I might take you up on that offer seeing as Mrs Weasley keeps complaining about the length of it. I can’t floo call without her mentioning it at least twice, it’s almost enough to get me to hack it off myself. 

‘ _Exhibiting a level of hormonal stamina that is unsettling considering their age_ ’? Tell me, Malfoy, at what age would you find it appropriate to start displaying . . . hormonal stamina? I am a professor, after all, so I ask this purely from an academic standpoint.

Forgive me for mocking your concerns, but I’m finding it hard to believe that the boys are being too inappropriate. Perhaps they are just making use of their free time as best they can. You know, as _teenagers_ (we were teenagers once, remember, old man?) are wont to do. From your letter, it sounds like they are defiling every horizontal surface in the Manor. 

Are you sure that is the case or has isolation gone to your head already, even with the boys around? You poor thing. I’ll send off another bottle of Ogden’s _immediately_.

—H 

*** 

Potter,   
Don’t you dare attempt to cut your hair yourself! It’s already a riotous atrocity without your self inflicted hackery. My gods, man, what on earth would you do if I weren’t at the other end of your tedious letters to keep you from yourself? If only all of Wizarding Britain knew of my sacrifice, I’d be heralded for my noble deeds, surely. 

Despite my deeply self-sacrificing nature, I am still forced to withstand the gale of your incredulity over the state of things here at the Manor. Must you? Haven’t I been punished enough, Potter? I’ve paid my reparations, I attend dreadful Ministry functions with the toffs of society, donate to the proper charities and have even started several of my own! One would think that all of this freely-given goodwill would somehow wash me of my past sins. Or at least, begin the process. 

And yet, here I sit, at my escritoire in my rooms, pretending not to hear the sounds of our beloved children _in flagrante delicto_ next door. Did no one teach them silencing charms at school? I blame you for this oversight, and I weep for their dormitory mates. Would a quick _Muffilato_ kill them? It’s half-past two in the morning, Potter. I’m a single parent, I need rest!

Once more, are they even being safe? Were they ever taught the appropriate spells at that abysmal pit of a school? I certainly don’t remember a class on such things, then again, sixth year was a bit of a wash for me, to put it lightly, but regardless, I am worried and rightfully so. Do not even think about scoffing at my concern, my threat of hexing off your hair still stands (bald would undoubtedly be better than whatever you might do to it yourself). 

Obviously something must be done, and as sole guardian of these two lustful miscreants, I fear the burden falls solely upon my heavily laden shoulders. Before I speak to our precious prodigies, I ask you, how would you approach this topic with Albus? Given your previous disregard for the seriousness of this matter, I will, no doubt, expect to receive no useful response from the great Harry Potter.

Nevertheless, I await your return owl. 

D.M.

***

Malfoy,  
From the tone of your letter, I gather you believe it wrong for Scorpius and Albus to be intimate at their youthful age. If so, it’s clear that you have never spent much time around teenagers. With no war raging—it’s not like in our day—at any given time Hogwarts is practically vibrating with the power of the hormonal urges of the fifth, sixth and seventh years. 

But I am not so apathetic to your concerns as you seem to believe. Although I knew that Albus was fond of Scorpius, I will admit to not knowing the extent of their physical relationship until now. 

So, considering that we’re both squarely on the same page, I’d say let’s end this silly ‘farce’ as you put it ASAP. Tell the kids that you know, and that I know, and that while we whole-heartedly support them, it is important that they are being smart. Use all the fancy words that you love to pepper your correspondence with to me. I’m sure they’ll eat it right up. 

In fact, can I firecall in during this? For moral support, of course, not to revel in the fact that your normally perfectly pale skin will be, no doubt, flushed from parental embarrassment as you stumble through your speech to our sons. 

Let me know when you plan to have this chat and I will make sure to be ready at the floo. 

—H 

***

Potter,   
What on earth does ASAP mean? Has your entirely barbaric upbringing finally passed from speech impediment to actual writing hindrance? I say, I'm thoroughly concerned. Have you been checking for fever? I’ve been keeping my consumption of the news to a minimum in order to maintain sanity, but perhaps illiteracy is a side-effect of this plague unbeknownst till now? Is Madame Pomfrey still in attendance at the school? Go to her right now and have her do a scan. Lives could hang in the balance here, Potter, I will not let you carry on as normal if you are infected. 

D.M.

*** 

Malfoy,  
Despite your keen ability to effortlessly change the subject, you did not succeed in throwing me off the scent. Can I firecall when you decide to confront our sons with the news that their respective parents aren’t as ignorant as they think? 

Please respond ASAP, 

— H 

***

Potter,   
That depends. Will you be there in support of our sons, or will you be there to study the colour of my ‘perfectly pale’ skin? I say, Potter, if you were attempting a compliment over my complexion (which, I agree, it is quite something), you’re pants at it. There are a multitude of words to use in place of ‘pale’ when describing my skin tone. Alabaster, for instance, is a popular choice amongst my admirers. Pearlescent. Incandescent. Really, the world is your oyster in terms of bringing light to the enviable beauty of the Malfoy line. ‘Pale’ is a pathetic word in comparison. 

Do better. 

D.M.

  
  


***

Malfoy,   
Your humility in the face of a global pandemic and the confidence of our sons’ trust in us at this formative juncture in their lives is truly astounding. 

—H

P.S. You still didn’t say yes. 

***

Potter,   
Don’t be daft, you utter twit. Albus is your son. The answer was always yes.   
  


D.M. 

P.S. This is in response to your want to firecall, only! That school is no doubt still a festering chasm of plague. Please keep your person within the burning embers of my hearth and not on the parlour’s Turkish rug. 

P.P.S. How’s tomorrow evening at seven sound?


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

Potter! Why in the name of Circe did you suggest we do that? What an abysmal plan! I can’t believe I let myself be talked into such an ill-fated foible. I should have known that speaking to our sons about sex would be akin to having one’s fingernails removed with an Eradication Spell. I am livid. Do not even attempt to correspond with me any further, I'm going to hide in the wine cellars and drink myself into a stupor, where I won’t be able to remember that I have a son and that he’s fallen in love with a bloody Potter! 

***

Dearest Potter,   
Good evening, my renegade partner in parental pitfalls. 

After consuming a bottle of the Black family’s treasured Renish (have you had the privilege of tasting Renish, Potter? It is truly a gastronomic pleasure, I’d share with you but alas I’ve finished this bottle, and there is that terrible trouble of a world-wide plague afoot.) Did you know the Blacks were vintners? Well, that’s a bold statement, they didn’t actually do any of the winemaking, they merely charged taxes on the land of the winemakers and then took casks as payment. 

Where was I? Ah, yes! After I left the wine cellars (have I ever shown you the wine cellars here at the Manor? No, I suppose we never got around to a proper tour when you were here, what with that madman in residence . . . But! The wine cellars. They’re a treat! Nothing like the dungeons, Potter, I assure you), did I have a point I was aiming for? 

Right, the children. 

Once I quit the cellars, I traversed the corridor where Albus and Scorpius’ rooms are located and all was quiet. Almost too quiet. And, while I’d like to think they listened to what we said, I fear they are lulling me into a false sense of security. I don’t trust the quiet, Potter. Nothing good ever comes from quiet halls here at the Manor. I’d much rather the sound of the boys running up and down them, shouting and egging each other on, all the while the house elves follow, worrying their ears and sending themselves into a right tizzy. 

Do you ever miss when they were children? Children are so very loud. It’s never quiet when you’ve a child in your home. 

It is so very quiet here, and I’m so alone. Where are you, Potter? Why do you remain at that infernal school? 

***

How dare you not respond to me, Potter. Are you passed out on your floor with an empty bottle of Ogden’s by your side? Potter! What is that phrase, misery wants company or some such things? You’re supposed to wallow in this with me! 

Fine, if you refuse to write back then I am forced to trudge by foot to my cellars and retrieve another bottle.

***

Pretty, Pretty, Potter,   
Turns out I didn’t have to trudge. Pip brought me a freshly ~~uncocked~~ uncorked bottle. Bless her. 

Are you up? I’m famished and exhausted and yet I sit here un-asleep and empty-bellied. Well, my belly is full of wine. Empty of food. 

Food. ~~Glroius~~ Glorious food. 

Could you please boil me an egg? I like boiled eggs. No one knows this, of course. Even under threat of ~~disim~~ ~~dishem~~ disembowelment never will I admit to enjoying something so utterly, so completely common as a boiled egg. They’re common, Potter. Have I mentioned? I am not common. Nor are you. You’re very uncommon. The most uncommon of them all, in fact. And ~~delicoius~~ d-e-l-i-c-i-o-u-s. The eggs, I mean. And right now, I’d very much like a fucking. 

Egg. I’d very much like an egg. Give me one.

An egg. 

Not . . . no, I mean an egg. I’d like an egg. 

Pooter. Are you listening? Write back to me.

Please?


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

Good morning, Malfoy!  
After all that wine, I do hope you slept well. I can't imagine what waking up is going to feel like though—probably something akin to Peeves tap dancing on your head. Please allow me to extend my deepest apologies to you for not being there in your hour of need. You do realise that it takes many hours for an owl to travel from the Manor to Hogwarts, right? Your first letter didn’t arrive until the wee hours, long after I’d eaten a late dinner, had a few pours of Ogden’s and gone to bed, like a normal person. 

And while I should be annoyed with you for waking me up with your drunken ramblings, they were greatly entertaining to read. So tell me, did you ever get your egg? If I wasn’t confined to this ruddy pile I would have happily boiled an egg for you, even though you have house elves at your beck n’ call every hour of the day for just such egg-related emergencies. May I also point out how heartwarming it is to learn of your utmost faith in my ability to provide for you in such trying times? You came to me with your eggy urges, and I’m touched, Malfoy. And as luck would have it, I’m rather good at boiling eggs—Albus would eat nothing else for almost six months when he was a toddler. Though, the eternal question does stand: do you prefer your egg hard or soft-boiled? 

Anyway, how are you feeling this morning? More importantly, have you seen the boys or are you avoiding them? While I don’t think our conversation with them was as bad as you seem to think, I am sorry that you are the one having to handle the aftermath on your own. Isolation is difficult on us all, but it’s particularly painful when your child is in need of his father and you can’t be with him. Thankfully, he has you. You are an excellent father, that bears mentioning. To both your son and mine. And I agree, very much not common. 

I’ve enclosed some of Pomfrey’s Hangover Tonic. It’s powerful stuff—should put you to rights in no time. 

Feel better,  
Harry

***

Potter,   
Do you wish to be congratulated for knowing how to boil an egg? What kind of absurd nonsense . . . Why are you wittering away about such things, Potter? I don’t understand why I put up with you. 

Though, please extend my deepest gratitude to Madame Pomfrey for her tonic. I’m vexed to admit to needing such an unsavoury potion, but having it arrive by my bedside this morning with your note was both a surprising relief and greatly appreciated. 

Despite these perfunctory pleasantries, Potter, I must say, I resent your suggestion that I might hide from our sons like some guilt-ridden scoundrel who’s incapable of emotional growth and recovery. I am a bastion of emotional growth and a testament to overcoming trauma. Just look at me, I’ve single-handedly resurrected the Malfoy name, if only for the sake of Scorpius. I, myself, no longer matter in the grand scheme of things, it is the next generation who will take up the mantle of their fallen fathers and I have worked tirelessly to ensure that Scorpius is allotted all the opportunity he desires in the future. 

Oh now look, you’ve sent me off on a tangent and I’ve forgotten as to why I was berating you in the first place. Dammit, Potter, are you ever not an annoyance? 

To be short, no, I am not hiding from the children. They are currently flying over the south lawns while I take my coffee on the terrace. Apparently I was squinting unbecomingly because Albus conjured up some ‘sunnies’, telling me they are a staple of muggle fashion. I’m sure I look ridiculous, but they do ease the discomfort from the blinding persistence of the noon-day sun. Your son is, as ever, a much more charming, tolerable and intelligent version of you. Why can’t you be more like Albus, Potter? It’d make this correspondence so much easier to bear. 

D.M.   
  
P.S. Who in Merlin’s name eats hard-boiled eggs! Uncouth, bespectacled wizards with an absolute dearth of class and decorum, probably. Actually, I remember my aunt Bella being a fan, if that’s any indication that harbouring such proclivities marks you as utterly insane. Of course I prefer soft-boiled, you imbecile. What is the point of an egg if not to break into the soft golden yolk and see it pool beautifully over a piece of perfectly browned toast soaked in butter, or a pile of peppery potatoes, or even a few spears of spring asparagus . . . the runny yolk is the key to any properly cooked egg, Potter. Remember that in future, won’t you? 

***

Dearest parental partner,   
Professor Sprout keeps Welsh Harlequin ducks. Did you know? They lay the most delicious golden (only in colour) eggs I’ve ever eaten. I’ve enclosed a package. 

Enjoy your runny yolks,   
Harry 

***

Potter,   
Your cheek is beyond the pale. I refuse to indulge your continued immaturity with a response. 

However, you're simply too annoying to ignore, so alas, I find myself writing back to you, which is a travesty on my part. Whatever was left of my perfectly well-bred conviction has been whittled down to nothing but pitiful urges I’m too weak to ignore. I blame you for this affliction. You and your ruddy ‘golden’ eggs.

Please make note that after that last paragraph, I paused my quill-scratching to heave an enormous sigh over how much you vex me. Did you hear it, Potter? Good. I directed it north, in hopes that it might reach you.

Now, I do have something of true importance to tell you, and while I am happy to report that it has nothing to do with the relationship between our sons, it is still of a serious nature: Albus has been having nightmares. I have both boys in rooms adjacent to mine here at the Manor and it’s come to my attention that Scorpius has been sneaking Albus into his room after I retire in the evenings around one. This news, at this point of course, is a surprise to no one. They’re insatiable during the day, why should they stop when Night has pulled her cloak from the recesses of the horizon and draped across the sky to blanket us all with the beauty of the constellations above. 

But I digress.

Apparently, the boys have a signal alerting the other to when I'm heading off to bed, leaving them to sneak into each other's room without notice. What our dear boys have yet to grasp is that I'm a much smarter wizard than they are and have put spell sensors on their respective doors. Each night around one in the morning I hear them go off. Naturally, the first time this occurred, I was up in a flash hoping to halt their rendezvous, but when I got to Scorpius' door and pressed an ear against it all I heard was the cries of your son and the consoling sounds of Scorpius soothing him. From what I could gather, Albus had experienced a nightmare and then dashed across to Scorpius' room for comfort. I'll admit, Potter, that I have never been more proud of my son than at that moment. He was so willing to give affection and care to his friend, no, his beloved, that I couldn't trespass upon their presence any further. I retreated back to my rooms. 

The same scenario has played out two more times and I’m growing more concerned with each reiteration. I’m at a loss, Potter. How does one proceed in this unique situation I’ve found myself in? Your son has nightmares. I'd like to help, but it seems that my son is already an expert in that area. So, what am I left with? A choice: do I allow them to simply sleep in the same room? Not for recreation but for companionship and comfort? Aren't they too young for such allowances, and don't they ever grow tired of the other? Do I intervene? I can't believe I find myself once again seeking your counsel, but as this concerns your son, I wish to know how you would have me proceed.

Regards,  
D. M. 

***

Draco,  
Because the thing of greatest importance is my son's well being, I will address your concerns first. Yes, Albus has a history of nightmares. He has always been a troubled sleeper and frequently woke with bad dreams as a child. As he's gotten older, they have become fewer and fewer, but when he is anxious, they start up again. It's not surprising that they have returned, given the stress and uncertainty of the current situation. I'm glad that he has found comfort where he is able and grateful to Scorpius for doing what he can to soothe Albus. I hope that the frequency and intensity of these dreams lessen the longer he is with you, but there are a few things you can try to help him. If you can find valerian root tea, try a cup before bed. And he likes being read to out loud, yes, even at sixteen. It settles him, so perhaps find a book you can all read together in the evenings? He loved The Hobbit as a child. Finally, allow him to sleep in the same room as Scorpius. He spent most of his childhood with his cousins and now at Hogwarts, he’s rarely slept in a room by himself; he sleeps better with someone close by.

In truth, the boys have probably already been sharing a bed at Hogwarts. Don’t fly off the handle with me here, I have no control over what happens in the Slytherin dormitory but considering their comfort level with the other, I don’t doubt this as a possibility.   
  
While, in normal circumstances, them sharing a room at such a young age might come with its own set of concerns, considering the state of the world at present, why don't we make an allowance for them? Just this once.

Harry  
  
P.S. Eggs aside, are we going to continue to ignore the four drunken letters you sent me the other night? Just curious. Do you even remember writing them? If you need reminding, I will happily provide it, with direct quotes, if necessary. 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Potter, 

Direct quotes will not be necessary, I am fine with my minimal recollection of that evening. I set out to rid myself of the memory of witnessing our sons exhibit more emotional stability than we have ever possessed in our entire lives, and succeeded. The aftermath was, I’ll admit, most unfortunate, but I had brought it upon myself and therefore suffered the consequences whilst holding my head high despite the ringing within. No further probing of the past is needed at this time. Thank you. 

I do appreciate your suggestions for helping Albus overcome his nightmares. We happen to have a store of valerian root here at the Manor, so the house elves were beside themselves with the opportunity to aid 'Master Potter' in his quest for sleep. I passed a cup to him last night after dinner and he nodded his thanks, causing me to abort my explanation. Words, apparently, were not needed, and I feel we both were grateful for the silence. In regards to the proposal of nighttime reading, I'm waiting to see if the tea proves soothing enough before suggesting such an activity to two teenage boys.

As for allowing them to sleep in the same room, I must admit, once again, that I am uncertain as to how to broach the subject. I can so easily picture your scoff at my reticence, Potter, but I implore you to see this from my point of view. Since our conversation the other night, they have made efforts to be more appropriate and it appears they have taken us seriously, but I can't help worry that they may take advantage of their newfound independence if we are to allow them to share a room. Because, to put it simply, they are still just flagrantly . . . touching, all the time! 

Do not misunderstand me, I am not suddenly opposed to their affections, nor their obvious adoration for the other—actually, if I am being brutally honest with you, and my lack of attachment to the outside world as of late seems to be having just such an effect on me, their care for each other is heartening. No, what boggles the mind is the amount of affection! Were we thwarted such chances at teenage revelry because there happened to be an egotistical maniac attempting to take over the world? If so, I'd like a time-turner to fix such atrocious wrongs! Imagine, being a man of my age . . . well, you don’t have to imagine, you are a man of my age, but imagine having the freedom to just be together with the ones we wished and being able to exhibit the kind of carefree nature that our sons express towards each other. I’m astonished and, dammit, envious! I know I must sound like a confundused fool with all my repetition in regards to their ease at being together, but it all just seems so simple for them. Their love is so pure. 

Merlin’s balls, Potter, listen to me. I’ve become an utter sap parenting these two in isolation. More to the point, I realise your lackadaisical nature allows for a loose concept of propriety, but I’m still concerned about the boys shifting from dormitory mates to bed partners. And Mother is due to arrive in two weeks time from Italy, what on earth will she think when she learns of this? Circe, help us all. 

Have I mentioned to you the amount of paperwork I’ve needed to wade through in order to secure her a portkey out of Venice? The entire country is in lockdown, including the wizarding areas. She’s been hiding away in the family’s crumbling palazzo for over two months with nothing but Mipsy to tend to her. I’m setting up rooms for her in one of the carriage houses for the first few weeks to maintain her distance from the boys and make sure her health is in good standing. Between the two of us, Potter, I am relieved for the excuse to keep her out of the main house. You have met my mother, so for once, I feel no need to elaborate.

Respond as soon as your able,  
D.M. 

***

Potter, 

No, this won’t do. Waiting for your glacial reply is a torture I will not withstand. In truth, I cannot handle this any further on my own and I must ask you, nay, I _implore_ you to come and join us here at the Manor immediately. Do not make me mention such an unsavoury thing as stress, the indignity would kill me, but if I must admit to you how taxed my nerves are in order for you to understand, then I will, Potter. I will! Perhaps, once you’ve arrived, a miracle will occur and the boys will mind you more than they’ve minded me over the last weeks, and if so, I shall fling myself from the nearest turret when that time comes but I digress. My point is, it is your turn to parent! I need a break. And gin. 

In short, drop whatever tedious task it is that you are doing and come here. Tout de suite!

That is, only if you’ve been following the appropriate Ministry-mandated procedures. I will not have these boys subject to sickness, nor my mother, whose dwindling health has been my own burden to bear since my father’s passing. Do not even get me started on the . . . no, I’m cutting myself off. I’ve stated my wish in asking you to please join me here and I will leave it at that. 

Regards,   
D.M. 

  
***

Dear Draco,

I must admit that your last letters were difficult to take in knowing you were in such a state. I knew that this period of quarantine was going to be trying and unpleasant for many reasons — and it truly has, for although I do care for the rest of the Hogwarts staff, they are no replacement for family, and at the moment, the entirety of my being wishes to be elsewhere! 

Many of my previous letters might have seemed flippant or uncaring, but that is the farthest thing from the truth, Draco. While I am just trying to not go mad in a mostly empty castle, you are having to parent through a pandemic. It is no wonder that you are feeling overwhelmed. I cannot express how grateful I am to you for taking on this task. I wish I could be there to support you, and relieve some of your stress, but unfortunately, I am trapped here until the Ministry approves our departure, which, Merlin-willing, will be on Friday. So I ask you to hold on until then, okay? Just three more days. You can do this, Draco, you are one of the strongest people I know. 

Give my love to Al and please take care of yourself.  
Harry

***

  
  
Harry, 

Merlin, how odd that is to write Harry, but no longer does Potter feel correct. Then again, we are no longer rivals in too-large Quidditch leathers fighting it out for the House Cup but are, in fact, mature adults, so why keep up the pretence of such stereotypical toxic masculinity? Down with the Patriarchy! That’s what I always say. 

I am going to magnanimously ignore the reality that you didn’t drop everything and come to my aid immediately, but I will, as ever, give your love to Albus. I do appreciate your gratitude and know that it is heartfelt, so I thank you. However, I am holding you to your promise of three days because time has been a cruel, cruel mistress as of late. Being confined to a drafty old pile with two energetic, lovestruck teenagers makes three days feel more like three years by comparison. 

_Please,_ do not make me wait much longer. Lives hang in the balance! 

Yours teetering-on-the-brink,   
Draco 

P.S. I forgot to mention! Scorpius, by some means of spontaneous and surprising Legilimency, knew of my struggle in finding a way to broach the topic of reading to Albus, and my darling boy took it upon himself to suggest a Muggle set of serial stories entitled ‘The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes’ to read aloud last night after dinner. The three of us took turns passing the book around in front of the fire. I must say that Albus is quite the actor, he did all the voices! When I asked about his inspiration for Holmes, he ducked his head and mentioned my name, much to Scorpius’ enjoyment since my traitorous child then burst out in hysterics. (Your boy has certainly inherited your savage humor.) The next morning at breakfast Scorpius discreetly informed me that Albus slept soundly, no nightmares to report. Again, thank you for your advice. 

Merlin, listen to me, just brimming with gratitude and praise. I’ve truly gone round the twist. 

***

Dear Draco,

First, where in the world did you pick up phrases like ‘stereotypical toxic masculinity’ and ‘down with the patriarchy’? Not that I don’t support these sentiments, I just didn’t expect you to know, let alone use, the terminology of Muggle feminists. Wherever you learned them, please continue with such a valuable education. Hermione would be proud.

Second of all, I am happy to hear that Albus slept without waking last night and whether it was by Legilimency or intuition, I am grateful to Scorpius for always looking out for him. It sounds like you all had a great time reading the adventures of Holmes and Watson together, and yes, Albus is quite happy in front of an audience — he and Rose were always putting on plays as children. I look forward to joining you all in reading more of these stories in the future, however, I fear it may not be as soon as we’d hoped.

Yesterday Professor McGonagall fell ill. Her symptoms, though mild, are concerning Pomfrey and she's alerted St. Mungo's of a possible case here at the castle. Merlin, I hope it is nothing more than a simple cold, but given her age, we have to be cautious. They say it affects older people more seriously, and while I want to believe that nothing could take McGonagall down, I worry for her. 

Although we have been doing our best to maintain a good distance from each other as the Ministry recommends, I can’t help but wonder if the rest of us have been exposed, and if so, when we might finally be allowed to leave the castle. No, I know it isn’t wise to speculate or dwell on the worst-case scenarios at this point, we just have to wait until we know more. I’ll write again once we’ve heard from St. Mungo's.

So while I wish to be with you all as soon as possible, I don’t think it will be in my promised three days. 

I’m sorry.

Harry


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

Draco,  
Did my previous letter reach you? I’m used to waking up to a barrage of owls from you, so the fact that I haven’t heard from you in over a day makes me a bit worried. Are you okay? In case my first letter has flown astray, here are the important bits: McGonagall is unwell and Pomphrey is concerned about her symptoms. She has contacted St. Mungo’s, but we are still waiting for their response and instructions. 

The Prophet reports that they are struggling with the number of wizards and witches in need of treatment and there aren’t enough beds for everyone who needs one, so it seems we are low on their priority list. As a precaution, Pomphrey has ordered us all to remain in our quarters until we get McGonagall’s test results back. The house elves send up food and Sir Nicholas floats in for a visit every now and then, but I’m already feeling cooped up in my rooms. I don’t like being confined to small spaces—too many bad memories resurface. Usually I am free to roam the corridors of the castle when I’m feeling restless, but that isn’t an option now. 

It probably won’t come as any surprise to hear that I’ve never been good at sitting around and waiting. I want to be out there doing something, dammit. I can practically hear you muttering “the Chosen One” from here, Draco, but I do hope it’s tempered with a bit of fondness instead of the bite it used to carry. I want to be of use, but seeing as my knowledge of highly contagious diseases and healing is limited, I find myself rather useless. I hate feeling useless. The isolation is hard enough to bear, but the uselessness chafes even more. 

I’ve updated my lesson plans, but who knows when students will be here again to learn them. I’ve sorted all my books, even attempted to read a few, but the words swim before my eyes and I forget what I’ve read mere minutes into the task. I’m tired but sleep doesn’t come. I’m restless but can’t channel it into anything productive. It is as though I’m caught in a state of constant in between.

It also doesn’t help that I’m rather desperate to get out of here, which is, as far as I can recall, a first. Hogwarts has always felt like home. It was my safe haven after those horrible years with my aunt and uncle, and after the war, rebuilding it was a labour of love. Despite having Grimmauld Place, I am always more comfortable spending term-time at Hogwarts. I can breathe here, even with the noise and drama that the children bring with them. But now it feels like a prison and for the first time I am plotting an escape from its walls. 

I’m trying to remain hopeful that McGonagall will be okay and that I will be able to leave soon, but the stark reality of the situation makes it difficult. I keep going in tortuous circles—I have too much time with my own thoughts. How is it possible that we might escape without this sickness touching our community in some way? If one of us were going to get it, then wouldn't it have happened before now? Maybe it’s just a cold and nothing more serious? If she does have it, what does this mean for the children and their families? Might they already have it too? How many do we stand to lose? We’ve lost so much already. 

I miss Al. I miss Scorpius. I miss you. It seems odd to say that because I haven’t seen you in years, but it’s true nonetheless. Your letters have helped stem some of my loneliness over the last couple weeks, but words on a page aren’t a substitute for being in the same room with someone.

The tone of this letter has taken a turn, hasn’t it? It’s just as well. The house elves have sent up lunch so I’ll end here. Please write back so I know you have received this. And maybe we keep this latest development between us for now and only tell the boys once we’ve heard from St. Mungo’s?

Stay well,  
Harry

  
***

To The Whinging Hindrance of Hogwarts or (since we’ve been so informal as of late) Harry,   
Forgive my lack of a quick response to your previous letter. Upon reading the news of McGonagall’s health, and your imminent delay (my, what a contradiction) in departing the castle, I found myself on yet another self-pitying pilgrimage to the cellars for gin. Dear old Pip accompanied me and carried back several bottles, bless her. However, the overindulgence left me morose and mean-spirited once I dared pick up my quill to scratch out a response to you. The first several attempts at a reply were only sent as far as the nearest fire, where they belonged. 

I can be a mean drunk, Harry, you should know this. I do not make a habit of indulging to such extremes regularly, but these few instances over the past weeks have been born of that dreaded word I so hate to mention: _stress_. I’m ashamed that you’ve been on the receiving end of my weaker self, but nevertheless, my point is that I burnt the evidence of my drunken ramblings. They are but a smudge of ash on my hearth tile, as they were not meant for the light of day, let alone your stoic, sober bespeckled holiness. 

You’re quite the tease, Potter, do you know that? Perhaps a bit of the gin remains in my system because I can’t help but feel my anger spike as I write this to you. How dare you do this to me, at a time like this. How dare. You’ve taken our indifferent and polite acquaintance (and yes, that’s all that it was, a mere acquaintance, up until several weeks ago) from it’s dust-covered forgotten bindings on the shelf, brushed it off, and warmed it with your incessant prattle and earnest nature and your utterly endearing caring over your son, and you’ve turned it into something so much more . . . so far from indifferent I don’t even have a word to define it. But I can’t ignore it any longer, and you, what with your meandering thoughts and promises, you dare have the nerve to write to me that you _miss_ me? The intimacy of that statement, Potter! It sent a chill down my spine and you just put it out there, for all to see, that you _miss_ me, despite having not been in my company in years! 

No, actually, it is not hard _at all_ for me to admit that I am downright furious with you. I want you to take it back. All of it. Take back your kindness and your friendship because knowing that you miss me, and that you want to be here with me, and yet you can’t leave that insufferable pile of granite for what could be several more weeks yet has me on the highest of tight-wires balancing on the brink. I do not want to hold myself still and wait for you, dammit. I did not wish for this . . . this . . . need to see your letters come through my window, no matter the time of day. You’ve taken me from my calm and composed nature and turned me into a person who experiences _stress_ over such things as having to wait for the pillock Harry Potter to show his face on my doorstep because the damned fool confessed to me that he _misses_ me and somehow opened the floodgates of my own emotions. 

I despise you right now, Harry. I truly do. 

What is that we’re playing at? We’re grown men! We’re no longer teenagers with nothing but the world spread out at our feet. Not that the world was ever spread out before our feet in the way that it is for our sons, but my point is, that we’re not them. Is that what you think this is? Better yet, is that what you think they are? A do-over of our younger selves. The reimagining of a world that could never be for us because of the circumstances we were born into—what fantasy is playing through your mind right now, Potter, I must ask you because I, for one, am sick of you. Sick of your letters and your words and your (sudden and downright blindsiding) kindness towards me, and the last, but most certainly not least, I’m sick of your flirtations! What do they mean, Potter? Come clean on your intentions or else leave me be with my gin and my solitude. 

I was perfectly alright before this whole thing, you know. Perfectly settled in my life and in my own skin. I’m a proud man, I know, but I am not ashamed of that pride, nor will I back down from the accomplishments that I’ve achieved despite the idiocy of my youth. 

So I ask you to end this . . . flirtation, because unless you do show up on my doorstep two weeks from now with more than just a smile for me, I swear to the gods, Potter, I will end you myself, the children be damned. 

I will not read back through this magnum opus of a letter, lest it ends up in the fire with the others.   
Give my regards to McGonagall. 

D.M. 

  
***

Malfoy,  
It’s a fucking rollercoaster corresponding with you, you know that, right? Every time I think I have a grip on things, you throw me for a loop once again. 

Your reply came as a surprise to me, I’ll admit. Yes, for a long time, we were merely acquaintances, but I thought, by mutual agreement, that we’d moved beyond that. And now you’re ranting like I was being presumptuous by using your first name and trying to be honest and discussing things like the adults we are, but apparently that was all one step too far for you. 

You’re seriously going to complain about my flirting, Draco? Like I was being confusing or inappropriate somehow when you’re the one who’s been sending me innuendo-laden notes about fucking eggs and being strangely fixated on my hair and _demanding_ that I come to you at once? Like I have a fucking choice in how this is all playing out, instead of being limited by Ministry decrees and Pomfrey’s orders, and I’m just stringing this along to mess with you. And another thing, I didn’t realise that I had to declare my intentions, like some Regency-era suitor, after only two and a half weeks of writing to you, especially given what’s going on in the world right now and while our sons are going through big changes themselves. See, another loop! I’m sorry, I don’t downshift that fast. Yes, that was a Muggle car reference. Look it up.

I know it hasn’t been easy with the boys, but the three of you are healthy and safe, and right now, that counts for everything! Meanwhile, I’m literally confined to my rooms at the castle, worrying about the health of one of the most important people in my life because there’s a fucking plague battering at our doors, and you have the nerve to pretend that it’s just annoying Harry Potter making things difficult for you? You really are unbelievable. If you are furious, then it must pale in comparison to what I’m feeling right now. 

Merlin, I am livid. My first instinct was to reach for my wand to hex you, so you’re lucky I can’t leave the castle at the moment. 

I’m not missing you right now, that’s for sure. You will always find something to criticise no matter what I do, like you want to hold onto that image of me that the Prophet painted all those years ago because it’s so much easier to hide behind instead of admitting that’s _not who I am._ I feel like a right idiot for thinking that we could be anything other than Potter and Malfoy to each other, but if you can’t move beyond that, then what’s the fucking point? 

In case you weren’t aware, you can be mean sober, too. 

Oh, and St. Mungo’s is sending a Mediwitch tomorrow to assess McGonagall. We’ll know more soon and then you won’t have to suffer any more of my letters coming through your window.

—H.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry folks, chapter 12 is already written and will be on it's way to you via owl post soon!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Tacky, look who joined the character list. hehe.

Harry,  
Sorry to cut our firecall short—crisis averted. Hugo’s fine, just slightly singed around the edges. 

Listen, mate, you know I’m the first person to call Malfoy a tosser, but we've heard this all before, right? I know you, and I know how you get when it comes to him, and really, this is just history repeating itself. He's always been able to get under your skin like this, and I don’t think it would still be happening if there wasn’t something more there, as much as it pains me to say it. 

And yeah, everything is weird right now, emotions are running high and all that. Merlin, Rose and Hugo are doing my head in, so I imagine it’s much the same for Draco managing Al and Scorpius. But it sounds like this whole global fiasco has forced your hands a bit and now you’re both freaking out because you might be seeing each other in person really soon and then it’ll be real, not just words on paper, you know? 

What it comes down to is this: do you just want to be Malfoy’s friend or (Merlin-forbid) do you actually want to be together? If so, you’re probably gonna need to be up front about it. Malfoy’s a drama queen. He always has been, so maybe he needs a bit of romance? (Hermione’s rolling her eyes at me, which is also what I get whenever I attempt anything remotely romantic with her, but she’s a bit more practical about all this stuff and well, you get my point, right?)

And anyway, you two have been obsessed with each other ever since fourth year (at least), so I don’t think you’re reading any of this wrong. Neither of you are sending mixed signals because all of your signals have always been focused on each other. 

So basically, what I’m saying is stop being a stubborn idiot and tell the git how you feel, preferably with clear and simple words. 

Go forth and woo. You got this, mate. And now I need a drink.

Ron

***

~~Malf Draco,  
I want That last letter wasn’t  
Why is this so hard?  
You make me so...ARGH!  
Sod this. I don’t know what to say to you….~~

***

Ron,  
I have no idea what to write! I know you said to be blunt, and I tried, but really, ~~can you even~~ ~~the nerve of the ma~~ ~~he’s the most infuriating~~ he’s such a frustrating Slytherin arsehole! Why am I even bothering with all this?

Fuck it.

—H.

***

Ron,  
Ignore that last. I _really_ do want to bother with all this for him. At least, I thought I did. No, I do. But I’ve also had about half a bottle of firewhisky so everything’s a bit muddled. But ~~I’m pretty sure I want to bother with the damn bastard because~~ he’s . . . he’s under my skin, like you said. He’s always gotten under my skin, and I want him there. Well, not literally under my skin. You know what I’m saying. Why does he have to be such a ruddy prat about everything, though? I still have no idea what to say to him. I thought we’d had an understanding and now it all feels broken.  
—H.

***

Ron. Ronald. Roonil.

Ha! Remember in sixth year when that quill of Fred and George’s misspelt your name? Classic. 

Anyway, how is it that you always know how to say the right things? Like, truly, you just know. . . the right things! You said all the right things in your letter to me because you were right about it all. About me and Draco. You’re so smart. Much smarter than me and Draco. Well, Draco’s clever, like ‘Mione, but he’s also so confusing, cunning, captivating. I just want him to be straight with me, ya know? Well, not straight, but you get me. He’s just. . . .there are so many words, Ron, and so little communication. I get lost in all the words.

But I _like_ getting his ranty, rambly letters! I also want him to shut up. How do you get someone to shut up? I suppose I could kiss him to stop all the talking, talking, talking, but that’ll only work when I see him in person. And if he wants to kiss me back. I hope he wants to kiss me because I want to kiss him so much my teeth hurt. Can teeth hurt?

Help.  
—H.

***

Harry,  
Lovesick and drunk are not a good combination. Drink a couple glasses of water, brush your teeth, and go to bed. You’ll feel better tomorrow, and it’ll be easier to find the words you want to say to Draco when you’re sober.  
And you’re not stupid. Shut up.  
Love you, mate.  
Ron

***

~~Draco,~~

 ~~I keep trying to find the right words to say, but it’s so hard to be honest with you sometimes. You can only get burned so many times before you stop reaching towards the fire, right? But you are such a beautiful flame and~~ fucking hell


	13. Chapter 13

Harry,

Were you aware that our sons have a store of extendable ears in their possession? And that they've brought them from Hogwarts to the Manor? Blatant Ginger-made contraband, under my roof! The horror of it all. That joke shop is a menace to society, I’ve always said, but did anyone bother to listen? No, of course not. Regardless, I’ve only just learned of their offensive existence considering I saw one of the damn things slinking across my hearth rug the other night as I wrote to you.

You see, ~~Pott~~ _Harry_ , I tend to rant out loud when I’m writing—it helps me think. I’m sure you’ve pictured me in a series of unflattering rages in the days since my last letter, so I assume this will come as no surprise to you, and I do not blame you for such ill-thinking. I deserve it. I know that, but the point that I’m attempting to make here is that the boys heard me spouting my ire towards you, and well, needless to say, they did not approve.

Our children have ganged up on me as a collective front against my own stupidity and utter pig-headedness. Their words, not mine. They are far more perceptive than I realised.Considering the amount of time they've spent wrapped up in each other's company of late, I didn't think they were paying much attention to my correspondence with you, but alas, I have been played a fool. In fact, the extent of their knowledge when it comes to our tentative ~~friendsh~~ relationship is somewhat staggering.

The morning after I sent my tirade of a letter to you, the boys confronted me in the solarium where I was enjoying a much needed cup of espresso. You’d have been proud of your son, Harry. Albus was the one holding Scorpius back from his anger more often than not—we Malfoys do have a bit of a dramatic streak in us. I daresay, you’ve already deduced that I have quite the temper, for that crooked jut to your nose is living proof of my childhood inability to control myself. Though, I must say, it does give you a rather rakish appearance. . .

I’m stalling, I know. The boys have given me strict orders and I do intend to abide by them.

I am to write to you and apologise _as soon as possible_ , according to our sons. I’m also to state in my apology how utterly imbocilic (again, their words not mine) I’ve been. If you’re wondering why I’m being so upfront and open to you right now, it’s because Scorpius is reading over my shoulder with a gleam in his eye that I have not seen since Lucius’ reign of these halls.

My son just scoffed at me. An actual scoff of disdain. What has my life become? This is literal entrapment, Harry, I am being held hostage by our sons. Do I dare ask you for help? I don’t suppose you’re feeling very friendly towards me at the moment. The amount of cursing alone in your last letter spoke volumes at your current thoughts of me.

In all seriousness—Scorpius has now retreated to the gardens for a merry, midday snog with his boyfriend, so I do find myself alone and able to write to you without fear of my son’s surprisingly apt abilities at intimidation—I was unfair. I don’t need our sons to point out to me how rude and blindsiding my last letter to you was, and I know an apology is in order. I do.

I’m not an easy person to befriend, Harry. Sometimes I don’t even like myself enough to stand my own company. This is normally when gin comes into play, but we’ve already been down that road, so I won’t trespass upon it again. I would like to sit here and retract everything I’ve said to you previously, but I cannot, and I’m not sure there wasn’t a kernel of truth in my words. I was shocked by your vulnerability and unsettled by how such open and freely given kindness made me feel. You have made me uncomfortable in many ways over the years, Harry, but as of late, I’ve felt bereft without your letters nearby to soothe me. I am aware of how naive and wistful that sounds, but it’s true. There’s an itch that I can’t quite scratch without knowing a letter from you is en route to my window. I don’t like being dependent upon other people, but I find myself oddly dependent upon you these past weeks, and I suppose I’m scared to accept what that means.

None of this changes the truth of my own overly-dramatic nature, and you should know this about me. I am rude and crass and indulgent and prideful to a fault. I know this about myself and accept it, but I suppose what I’m asking now is for you to accept it as well.

I’m not going to change, Harry. I’m too old for that now. But I can apologise, and I will. Properly and in person, as soon as you’re able to be here.

Regards,  
Draco

P.S. Although it may have seemed like a throwaway comment, my concern for McGonagall’s health was genuine. I wish her well and hope whatever the Mediwitch has discovered will be nothing of great concern. Do keep us updated; the boys send their best wishes for her quick recovery alongside mine. And Harry, look after yourself, won’t you? I promise the walls will not close in on you. The castle has always been much larger than a cupboard and no one will fault you for wanting to leave once the dust settles.

***

Dear Draco,

I think I’ve been going about this all wrong. I’ve been stepping lightly and joking too much because I was scared to interrupt this tenuous new connection we’ve built, but it seems to have only prolonged the lingering sense of misplaced suspicion or uncertainty between us. I don’t want that anymore. In fact, I’ve never wanted it. But it’s hard to put something like that aside after so many years of constructing defensive barriers between yourself and one very specific person.

You’ve always been my one specific person, Draco. Even when I thought I hated you. Even then, I was inexplicably drawn to you, convinced you were always up to something and determined to figure out whatever it was. Obsessed, that’s what Hermione called it, and she was right. When I think back on our time together at Hogwarts, I cringe at how I behaved, for every single one of our interactions was tinged with jealousy, anger and mistrust. But I think that was a cover to hide the undercurrent of our feelings, because alongside all the ugliness we flung at each other there was also fixation, curiosity and attraction, at least for me.

I feel like we’ve wasted so much time, hating each other, holding each other at arm’s length, that it comes as a huge relief to set that all aside. It took so much energy to uphold that facade of dislike and, now especially, I am too tired to even pretend to do so any more. So, as scary as it might be, this is me stating very clearly to you that I care about you very much. I always have, in one way or another. You’ve always been able to elicit strong emotions from me, Draco, and now, with so much having changed between us, I find that very exciting.

Maybe I should thank the boys for their intimidation tactics. Them forcing your hand has, in turn, spurred me into these long-held confessions. In the spirit of full disclosure, I will admit that it took me a bottle of Ogden’s, several failed attempts at writing to you, and one panicked firecall to Ron to get me to this point.

I also want to thank you for your honesty in your last letter. By now, I think it’s safe to say that we’ve seen the absolute worst of each other and we both have things about ourselves that we don’t like very much, but I don’t want to dwell on those any longer because they are not representative of who we are. I hope you can also see what I see in you because you’ve said nothing about what makes you so incredible—your wit and intelligence, your bravery, your passion, your ability to turn a phrase. You are one of a kind, Draco Malfoy, and I hope to be by your side, Merlin-willing, very soon.

Yours,  
Harry


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

Harry,   
You truly are as blunt as a bludger. This shouldn’t be a surprise after so many years of knowing you, but yet I find myself embarrassingly flummoxed by your letter. When we took up a correspondence to make arrangements for the boys during this crisis, I did not envision us ending up here, with you hoping to be by my side ‘very soon’. But yes, despite everything, I find that I do share in that sentiment. Strange, isn’t it, how our sense of time has been shifted as of late. ‘Soon’ could now mean anything from several hours to a fortnight. ~~Many things that I once took for granted~~

Oh, sod this.

It’s simply no good, Harry, my wit and charm have left me. My abilities to turn a phrase have flown the coop along with the last of the Manor’s pretentious white peacocks. I am nothing but a shell of my former self, stripped bare upon the stage, unable to form a single complete thought. It’s rather devastating to realise, actually. I blame you for this. You and your earnest, forthright declarations. 

So, in the absence of my superior prose, how about some trivial civilities instead? How is the weather? Are the endless clouds still pissing down rain with the sort of fervour that seeps into your very bones? Remind me to regale you of my days in the Slytherin dungeons—have you ever visited the other common rooms during your tenure at the school?—the walls were perpetually damp with a wet chill yet the hearth rugs never failed to keep your feet warm and the beds in the dormitories were lush with layers of blessedly dry duvets. I cherished sleeping in that bed. Scorpius apparently holds a similar affinity, I spotted one of the green Slytherin throw blankets in his trunk when they’d first arrived. 

Oh, and to save you the time of asking, the weather here is lovely. Wiltshire in the early summer is always a sight to behold. As you shall find out very . . . soon. 

Warmest Regards,   
Draco 

  
***

  
Dear Draco,

Your last letter made me smile. Have we been reduced to discussing the weather already? Surely there are more interesting topics? But I will admit to looking forward to experiencing the Manor at this time of year. As you’ve mentioned previously, the memories of my last visit are not good ones, so replacing them with new memories will be a relief. Because if Albus can take to the place like a grindylow to water, then surely I can muster up the courage to stand in the hall where I was almost given over to Voldemort. I don't think either of us thinks back on that day particularly fondly, but it was only because of your refusal to identify me that I didn't die there on the cold stone floor. That was brave, Draco. Especially since you and your family were in imminent danger yourselves. Have I ever thanked you for that? Not properly, and I should. 

Well, this is not how I intended to start this letter. Taken a rather dark turn, hasn't it?

Moving on to another safe and easy topic of conversation, how are the boys? Now that we’ve made our peace, have they relaxed their bullying? I hope so, although I must admit that I got a kick out of the mental image of Scorpius standing over your shoulder as you wrote that letter. From my observations of how he manages his study group, I am not remotely surprised at his intimidation skills. He has a strong moral compass and an unceasing determination to do his best, something that Al has benefitted from throughout their years together at Hogwarts. Without Scorpius, I’m not sure Al would have managed to scrape together as many O.W.L.s as he did. 

Anyway, I wrote to Al to let him know that I’d be seeing ~~him~~ you all soon. His response was: “Cool, Dad. Mr Malfoy can’t wait to see you!!!!” At first, I was miffed because he failed to mention that _he_ couldn’t wait to see me too and then I was momentarily embarrassed at the fact that our sons are so invested in our relationship. Well, at least we have their blessing, I guess? 

Merlin, this is really happening, isn’t it? I mean, I know that I have been an enthusiastic participant in this whole courtship by Owl Post thing we’ve had going on, but it still seems a touch surreal, especially given everything else happening in the world at the moment. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel right now—too many conflicting emotions and they seem to change from one second to the next. Do you feel that way? The last time I remember having this many emotions was during fifth year when I was an angry, hormonal mess. Hermione used to say that Ron and I had the emotional range of a teaspoon, so I'd like to think that I've matured a little bit since then. Would it be horribly unattractive to admit that I’m nervous? Probably. Sorry.

So. . . the weather! Tell me more about Wiltshire summers. It’s still cold and wet here in the Highlands. I can’t wait to escape, and I shall. _Soon_.

Yours,  
Harry

***

* * *

  
  


D.—

McGonagall is okay! They’re letting us depart tomorrow evening. Leave the floo open for me?

—H.

* * *

  
***

Pansy,  
Help. I am in desperate need of your counsel. I am suddenly faced with a truly absurd reality that my teenage self wouldn’t dare to believe even in his most indulgent dreams (you know the ones—I’ve explained them all to you in vivid detail) and I am utterly discomposed. This time tomorrow, Harry Potter, our bloody fucking saviour and fantasy-fodder for lustful witches and wizards across the country, will be flooing to the Manor, and not just because his son has been quarantining here whilst he was trapped in that godforsaken pile of a school but also because ~~he has~~ we have been ‘courting by Owl Post’ (his words, not mine) for the last three weeks. And now he’s coming to my home. Tomorrow he will stand on my doorstep looking all roguishly dishevelled and attractive, probably wearing a woollen jumper with fucking elbow patches and sagging pockets, something that should not be alluring but will no doubt drive me up the wall with its incongruity on that man’s frame because the bastard can make anything look good, and what am I supposed to do with him? 

Yes, I know there’s an obvious answer to that question but do close your legs and focus, woman. And don’t you dare laugh—I can hear your frigid cackle from here, it’s gauche. I know very well what two wizards might get up to in the privacy of their own bedchambers, and that’s all very well and good for them, when one of them isn’t a reclusive ex-Death Eater and the other the Chosen One. Merlin's tits, I'm just realising this now, he's my chosen one, isn't he? Pansy, something is seriously wrong with me. I think I must have been slipped a love potion or been hit with a memory charm because I am clearly not right in the head. I’ve _chosen_ Harry, and what’s even more extraordinary, is that _he_ has chosen _me!_ And tomorrow he’ll be here! Quite possibly in my bed! I can’t take this. Send help. Or gin. Please send help and gin. 

Yours with a side of panic,  
Draco

***

Draco, you utterly selfish prick of a man. 

First of all, how dare you write to me asking advice on how to get in the pants of the fucking Saviour of the Wizarding World, like I ever wanted to be a part of your obsession with the bastard. Lest I remind you of the social pariah status I've endured since that minuscule slip-up of mine where I thought offering him up to the Dark Lord was a good idea? I was doing it to save the entire school, mind you! One life for the rest of the children felt perfectly acceptable to me at the time, but nooooo, here I am, living abroad decades later because Merlin-forbid you make one tiny ill-informed decision at the age of sixteen. Not that you need reminding, you should know all about bad decisions at sixteen, Draco. 

Second of all, how dare you not tell me you’ve been courting the fucking Saviour of the Wizarding World for the last month! I deserved to know about this development much sooner, not to be blindsided by your panic over all the sex you’re going to be having with him in the very near future! I thought I meant something to you, Draco. I thought we were best friends. If that is the case, then as your best friend, I deserve first dibs on all gossip pertaining to your relationship status and sex life. 

That being said, I have no real advice to give you because from where I’m sitting, you don’t have a problem. You have been in love with the bastard for over twenty-five years and now you are about to share your bed with him. The man, who, according to all the gossip rags, hasn’t dated anyone for years—you should really consider yourself lucky here, Draco. I bet he’s an animal in the sack. Perhaps do some stretches, loosen yourself up a bit to get ready for him? There, it looks like I did have some advice to share. Brava to me. 

Once you resurface from the Bacchanalian haze of your love den, do write to me with all the disgusting details so I can live vicariously through you. But I swear, Draco, if you send me another letter without a package of teacakes from Madame Puddyfoots again, I will set my henchmen after you with scissors. All that gorgeous hair of yours will be gone in a flash. Mark me.

With Love,   
Pansy

  
***

* * *


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

Harry,   
Sleep eludes me tonight. Instead of getting some much-needed rest, here I sit at my escritoire writing to you yet again, despite the fact that you are due to arrive in mere hours. 

I’ve been rather introspective as of late, and tonight my thoughts have strayed towards Scorpius and Albus. I've found myself contemplating the trite saying 'children are the future' and, ignoring the utter lack of creative wording to the phrase, I have found it to be true. 

When Scorpius was born I knew from the moment I held him, so small, so pink, so perfect, in my arms that he’d be the future I’d never been allowed to embrace. He’d walk through life with the freedom I’d been denied given the backward, ignorant idiocy of my upbringing. The yolk of the Malfoy name would not hold him down, but through hard work and the sheer force of my will, would raise him up to walk whichever path he sees for himself, head held high. 

I’m more proud of him each day than I can ever put words to, and yet, watching our sons these past weeks, seeing how they are together, I’ve come to realise that _they’re us_. They’re the truth we could have lived if my fucking father and the Dark Lord hadn’t set out to destroy you and simultaneously cut me down with hatred and bigotry before I’d learned what love truly is. I’m envious of our boys and I almost want to laugh at the hilarity I feel at being jealous of my own son, but I can only commend him on his choice because unlike myself, he’d befriend a Potter in his first year. He had the good sense to grow that friendship from childhood comradery to youthful compatibility and finally into the affection I’ve witnessed between them over these endless days without you. 

For a moment, I wished for you to see it with me, but then I remembered your smugness over having known of their relationship before me and realised you must have experienced it firsthand in the corridors of Hogwarts. Nevertheless, I still want you here to see them together, so carefree and utterly without tact that it pains me to even think of it, but they’re young and in love, and I can’t fault them for that, now can I? Teenage affections can make us do terribly stupid things, wouldn’t you agree? Like stalking someone under an invisibility cloak, for instance, or doing everything in one’s power to capture the attention of a certain thick-headed Gryffindor. 

Enough inane prattle about our past stupidity, we’re setting things to rights now. I’m through with being patient. I’ve let down the wards for you, Harry Potter, the boy who lived to torment my every waking day and every sleepless night since the age of eleven, and I await your imminent arrival. 

Yours,   
Draco 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the final chapters, kiddos! Thank you so much for joining us on this lovely quarantine adventure. We've enjoyed every moment with you, and cherished every comment and kudos you've gifted us! 
> 
> Expect chapters 16 and 17 to be posted Friday, July 3rd and Saturday, July 4th!


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

Dear Messrs Malfoy and Potter,   
We are slipping this small missive under your door in the dead of night to ask if you’ve ever heard of the  [ _ Muffliato _ ](https://zigster-ao3.tumblr.com/post/622636232222097408/special-little-illustration-to-go-along-with) charm? No? What a shame. But do not fret, we will happily teach it to you, seeing as your beloved sons would dearly like to sleep. In peace. And  _ quiet _ !

With love, yet concern for our youthful, impressionable ears,   
S + A

P.S. Scorp wrote this. I’d just like to say you’re both entirely too embarrassing for words. But I’m glad you’re here, Dad, and I hope you and Mr. Malfoy are very happy together! —Al

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click 'Muffliato' in the chapter to be linked to an illustration Zigs did in honour of this special moment that she felt needed to be captured.


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

Draco,  
Good morning! Never fear, I’m only going down to the kitchens, but I didn’t want you to wake up to an empty bed. Seemed wrong somehow after our first night together. To be honest, it took an incredible amount of willpower to even move, since this whole experience feels a bit like a dream, having you sleeping next to me with your hair fanned out over the pillows like some ethereal vision. Look at me being a total sap so early in the morning. Did I forget to mention that I’m a morning person? 

I can hear you asking why I got up at all, face scrunched up in that adorable way I remember from school whenever you were annoyed. Although, I didn’t find it so adorable then, more enraging, but I’m sure you understand. Anyway, I’m up because I wanted to make you breakfast in bed—a boiled egg, perhaps? And yes, I am aware that you have house elves, who probably would fall all over themselves to cook for us again, but I wanted to do it myself, for I am a romantic at heart. 

However, I’ve just thought of a flaw in this plan. Will you actually eat breakfast in your bed or will we need to relocate to a table? Oh well, I’ll deal with that issue when you’re awake and I’ve returned to your, frankly ridiculous and luxurious, bedchamber. The unicorn hair-embroidered bed hangings are quite a sight, I assure you. 

And because I’ve become so used to writing to you and rather fear that I won’t be able to say these thoughts out loud just yet, know that the relief at being by your side after so many weeks—years, really—is almost unbearable. Even when reading your last letter, I hadn’t realised the shattering effect the combination of pandemic stress and heartsick yearning had on me. It wasn’t until I was tumbling out of your fireplace, graceless and clumsy, to the sound of our sons’ laughter, did it hit me just how tightly wound I had been. But I’m not anymore, simply because I am here with you and our boys. Even though we are all safe and well,  I have half a mind to start casting defensive spells around the property out of sheer paranoia. Old habits are hard to break, after all. I won’t though. Instead, I’m going to be grateful for our health and happiness and try to live in the moment, to celebrate our time together.

With that, I’m finally forcing myself to go and fumble through the kitchen cupboards—that is if I can find my way to the kitchens—and I shall return to you soon with breakfast in hand. 

Yours,  
Harry

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the readers! We hope you enjoyed the ride.

**Author's Note:**

> p.s. we headcanon that Ablus' true name is, in fact, Albus Sirius Potter.


End file.
